


[Panwink] Elf Bar

by fanfictioning



Series: Elf Bar Universe [1]
Category: Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 04:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12124254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictioning/pseuds/fanfictioning
Summary: Please, do not read this series.Instead, go to Wanna One Universe (https://archiveofourown.org/series/825354)Thank you.***I'm a bore and bored.I'm a nobody in the village nobody comes but leaves as soon as they're of age.I, the ugly duckling, stay home which none lives. Probably will die in the same village I'm born into.What a bore.Until, I've found the unusual letter in the house of old dead man.Invitation to the Elf Bar...***********This is the Alternative Universe - Fantasy.It is very dreamy, gloomy and fun-less.Please be warned beforehand, the usual Pan-Wink personality is not used in this series.If you want the usual sweet-lovey-dovey Panwink. Please do not read this series.This series is very explicit in its expression of boredom and meaninglessness.





	1. a

The relationship between Elves in the forest and humans in the village goes back a thousand years and more. Well, taking into account the longevity of Elf people, that sounds about right. As all relationships go, ( Oh my, don't use the word, relationship. It reminds me of the one  
between my dad and mom, or the lack thereof ) there have been ups and downs. 

When good, a little bit of trade and mutual, implicit agreements between, when bad, well... men raping Elf women, men murdered for retaliation, harvesting and farming beyond into elf's territory, blaming Elves for livestock's go missing.(though more likely, deeds by wild animals) As you can see, most of the conflicts were by humans. Many reasons could be said about this, but all things could be derived from this quite different quality of two species. Humans make rules, then break'em to get more, Elves make rules, then keep'em even after they are quite obsolete. Like wise men once said, 'Humans live in present only,Elves live in past only.'

Well, I'm not the wise one, so what do I know? I just keep record of words. I'm just scribing away, in the lone once-monastery/now-library on  
the hill overlooking the village. Really, when the old man on the hill died, nobody wanted to take after his belongings. Hell, it was just  
chance of finding out he was dead, by little Lilly of the pub noticing the chimney on the hill not fuming, which was daily occurrence when the  
old man was alive. Only after by the stern words from the elderly of the village, the village people started to do away his funeral, clean up  
after his things.( which reads, looting what's good enough, dumping away what's not ) Nobody knows for certain where he came from, how long he  
has been up there living. Only the eldest man of the village talked some about when he was a kid himself, 'the house on the hill' was still going  
strong, and when he himself heard about the eldest of his generation said the same. Mysterious, wouldn't you say? But of course, the younguns  
like me had any interest in taking part of this boring job. They rather be swimming, flirting, chasing skirts and whatnot. Nothing but sorting  
through yucky stuff ( not my words, by other folks ) of some demented man ( not my words, again, by other folks) 

So, of course, that left me, the bookworm. Unlike most, well, all of the villagepeople, I've always liked reading those books. You know, those books, of fairytales of dragons and magic, which you should really grow out of when you hit puberty and start to chase girls, or when you become adults to take care of the jobs of the house, such as farming, trade, blacksmith whatnot. My father never really understood my ventures into the worlds of the books,( as he has read a lot, but only for useful things, such as farming, trade, economics, politics, you get the gist ) and my mother, well she always worried about me not man enough, useful enough, reliable enough. She means well, but that was about it. Nobody really understood me.

Well, there goes the useless rants about me. That's enough. So, the elders didn't like to have 'the house on the hill' turned into some rotten shack, untended. That would certainly be a bad thing. Hideout of wanderers, sneakout of young lovers ( yuck! ), base of thieves, hut for wild animals yada yada. But I just think they were afraid of the old man haunting the village cursing it to burn in hell. I seriously think that was the only reason the elder insisted to turn it into some useful thing to be maintained out of of village's collective money, and surprise, the notion went through to become the rule of the village. That actually created a semi-permenent job of librarian out of thin air, which naturally fell to the bookworm of the village. Me.

So, that's why I've found myself as a head librarian and scribe of the first and only library of the village.


	2. b

b.

Woke early.

Listened to the winds and birds chriping.

Sat.

Rather skip meditation today. Moving out of the bed, Turned on the coffee machine on. Let's just have some bread ready. Opened the windows  
and looked.

The clouds, the winds, the hills and tress. Omnious in their movements, what are they talking with one another? They've flown beyond mere words,  
only if humans follow suit.

The scent of coffee. Interesting, interesting. You say you want nature, but you live in logs and crave coffee. Some bread would be nice.

Ate, and drank.

The sun would be out soon, better be walk a little before then.

Set out.

The winds came into me. The scent, the power. When you live upon the hill, you feel it day by day, how little you are. How little you matter. After death, the mountains and winds will just keep going. Even though knowing all that in little head, one can't let go the concept of self. I eat, I walk, I speak. Eat, walk, speak. But no I. There's no I alone. Only with some other, I exist in relation. Only interaction exists briefly, and moves on.

I found sun on my head. The rays walked into my eyes. Sun seems to be getting up as well. I shall go back. It's no fun walking under the mightly eye.

ooo

Idleness creeps upon humans like poison. The shadow in the corner of your room tends to wrap itself around you to tie you up in your bed. I did the daily routine of tending the garden and the chickens, and set upon to the library.

Devils live in the books. Reading one tends to steal your soul for a brief moment, into the world of its own. So easy it is to mindlessly wander here and there in the world of words. Sometimes I wonder whether books are the words of the dead. While I defy the words of the alive, I get lost in the words of the dead. Can't really say which is worse, both living under curse of words.

The door opened with long screeching noise. I noted myself to borrow some oil from the pub in the village. The hinges could use some oil.

The tower shaped library was tall, its celing stretching to little hideout on the top. The stairs wraped themselves around the bookcases  
like mother snake coils itself.

I walked upon the little desk and sat down. The last day's work of cataloging books were there as it was left. The old man have done good job of getting books from all over to his little enclave, but he wasn't so keen on making a list of what he actually hoarded. Maybe his habit changed from reading books when he was younger, and turned to just hoarding when he was later. Books never go away, just humans change. The olden books looked as if they'd speak on where they were from, how they've gotten noticed by the old man, how long they've been here. If you let them be, they may be here forever, words of the dead. Is library just graveyard of words of dead people?

Do humans want to achive immortality through their words, even if their minds and bodies rot away into dirts and ashes? Do they succeed? Can we  
beat death?

Looking at all the books keeping silent until they're opened and read by chance, I wonder how pitiful all of us are, and how humane. Trying to mean something, anything itself. Is it such vanity to make something which one doesn't own? Is it arrogance of humans to try to reach the edges of the gods? In the end we all fail more or less. Grasping ghosts of one's own, the time slipping through one's fingers, sanity, one's minds.

I opened the booklist and walked to the 2nd floor through creaking stairs. Even before deciding in what way to sort the books, I don't even know how many or what kinds of books there are. It's gonna talk some while to write the titles down.

There goes the morning.

ooo

I treated myself with some chesse and bread. The mighty eye was in full force. The wine tasted sweet upon the lips, down to the throat. Nap took  
a little me.

ooo

Asleep, I visited Hades. No fun, no fun in the underworld. It pouted. So many livin' things up there, I envy you. It jabbed. But, Hades. Livin' things are in nature, ugly and sick. Why would you trade your death world of beauty with the ones with such ugliness? It fretted some more. We all want some we don't have, not because we desire, but because we don't have. Oh, Hades, you are just like us.

ooo

Woken up, I felt foreign in the living world. Surely, I visited lands of the dead.


	3. c

c.

It was interesting how my mind works, or doesn't work. I've been reeling from the impact of the yesteryears, and felt like a piece of raft in the vast ocean. Is it liberating or chaotic to know that you don't have handle on yourself, or to be precise, there's no your-self to hold on to. Frightening and freeing, but I've never felt free. That was interesting. Invisible and unrecognized shackled you've put onto yourself, unconscious and willful or unwilful chains you've been restrained, straight-jacked for safety, of which of what?

The original concept of book-listing was fleeing from me. I've completed the task of getting all the books listed. But, the naive idea of continuing the librarian pursuit was somehow stuck in my mind. Literally. Sorting, categorizing, calculating and pieceing things together. What don't you do that?

Sane ones would do that, but I wasn't so keen on that idea. How one categorizes always entails the values of arbitariness. Arbitrary characterizaion somehow turned into dogma and canon. I could make something up, maybe starting on my own way of sorting books. Would I want to?

My mind was drifting through currents of low water. I put the list away into the drawer and closed it.

It's time to start dusting those books.

ooo

I twisted the neck of the chicken. With sound of snap, it broke. After errantic muscles spasm of the chicken was subdued, I started to pluck the feathers. To get the nice boiled stew of chicken, I got some potatoes and carrots out in the garden. Some eggs and flour, nice loaf of bread and bit of wine. Chew by chew, I contemplated on the pleasures of eating.

By eating, I consume. By consume, I destroy. With destruction, my body and mind is resurrected every time. Life presupposes death. I could cop myself out to get just veggies to stop snapping the necks of the chicken. But would it change the inherent irony of living, that one lives by other's death. At the same time, living means dying. Compromises one makes to keep going, one can sit on its ass and starve itself to death, just to not murder any souls. Denying destruction of all destructs itself. Only by accepting the destruction of others, one lives and dies.

One needs humility and humbleness. Not false heroic efforts of salvation of the whole others. As you are born as little soul, only so much you can do and perceive. Skipping on meat wouldn't really do much.

Rationalization of satisfying meal of chicken stew was gotten out of hand. I sorted my thoughts and put them away in the drawer and closed it.

ooo

I stepped on the rock by the hills. Walking after the mighty eye has spewed its power was refreshing. When sun was coming down, only then you feel the warmth of it. When it high and mighty, only thing you feel is its power. Ovepowering and bossy it might seem, the trees and the rocks appreciates. Only I was thinking of awfulness of the clothes sticking to my skin. Why can't you be always be warm and comforting, sun?

The mountains and rivers have already accepted tyrrany of the sky. Accepting you can only do such to influence the things above its ground, they striked the pact between itself and the heavenly neighbors. When you live close enough, you can't go on being enemies of one another long. Longevity of conflicts wore both out pretty quickly. Only compromises and accepting the imperfections of one another would bring resigned peace. Peace comes from resignation.

Two-footed animals were not known for resignation. Being one of those packs have brought me conflicts and weariness. Only I could just accept, it would be much better. Little animals on the ground is proud and rebellious, they make forts and fortresses, ports and good port wine. They learned how to use the power of the sun and the knowledge of the moon. They harness the power of nature to use such to their advantage. They make and break, destruct and create. It is no wonder they made themselves their own god. But they appreciated only its power, none of its responsibility. Pact of balance were long gone, playing god was too fun thing to let go. Chaotic and untasteful violence was many and long, moderate and reasonable compromises were few between. Two-footed animals, freed from the shackles of four-feet, ran rampant and bred itself many.

My awful head was spouting nonsensical fish of thoughts, let me justwalk with two feet, not think with floating head.

ooo

The gust of wind blew from the bottom to the top of the mountain. Refreshing and fine, I duped myself to think it as the gift from god. Appreciation of little ant to have climbed hill of trees, perhaps. Mindfuck works both ways it seems. From the top, I walked downwards.

Back to the shack.

ooo

Little Lilly of the pub was by the garden looking dreamy and floating. She brought the oil I inquired some days ago. It would use itself to the hinges. She expressed interest on the mountains of books she heard down the village. Rumors were favorite snacks in easy days in the pub. Traveling fellows and merchants, monks and priests come through and by. Most times, they find the kind ears to listen to their tales of travel. Most people be born and die by the village they're born into. Tales of the cities and its frightening moderness always filled people with awe and wonder. Lilly spoke of plans to go to the city next month. She has gotten into the school of airfighting. Airships and fighter jets. I looked at the sky.

Mighty eyes, we shall play on your inner garden. How willful and arrogant we are! Little two-footed animals drinking air of upper space. What would the tree think? Those who only stay afoot till their death. Like little ole' me.

As I put some oil in the hinges, she took a tour of the library. Out of the dust, with lovely rays of the sun upon, books spoke of their whispers and their dreams. Somehow, my little old' library looked like a rocket aiming to the heart of the sky. May not be fighter jets and airships, but dreams of the same dream to spear the sky in its eye. Contemplating of air of the upper high...


	4. d

d.

The head was breaking. No, it's already broken. Don't you see the matter spilling through the cracks? The rain was dripping through the windows of the clouds. It striked the earth celebrating the pact of the peace. Let me just pour down on you as you can't do such to me. The laughter of the rain cracked through the windows of the shack. No, I'm dreaming.

The legs of the bed creaked through the darkness of the room. My legs were heavy and lazy. My eyes droopey and hazy. My head was still breaking. Bleeding through the cracks of the bed pillows. The falls of the night was still full force against the air. The air in the shack, was dense and blurry. I opened the curtains of my heart and peaked out.

The night was going strong with winds of the thunder. I must have anger the mighty sky some days ago. Little ole' library and the shack stood helpless against the blessing of the downpour. You shalt not blasphemer the gods. What do you know, little two-footed animal.

I shut myself out and slept.

ooo

The chickens strolled the gardens and flaunted their wings, coo-koo-ing. koo-coo-ing. Most of the crops and the flowers were all but uprooted and messed up. Then, I thought, isn't it the way it should be? Who am I to tell those to stay in line and obey my petty orders? They are wise to follow the more powerful lords, not two-footed animal of hubris. They commit to the pact of the peace. I am nothing more than nuisanse to be tolerated, like little ants crawling on your legs. Shake'em off when they become too bothersome.

What is of these humans to keep aligning the land when they know it is of waste? Determined and focused on their endeavour and humane will of present, they keep going and going on. On and on, praise the lord...

I went to the library to check the damages. The while marble walls shone divine, it spoke of nice dreamed it had last night. It seems I was the only one under the heavy nightmare. Then, I set out to the last one, the house of the old man.

Once the we've gotten the old man out for funeral, the house was shut off. Why did I deter myself to live in his house, and chose little shack by the library? Scared of his souls to appear as ghost? Respect to not use the room of his? Weird and unreasonable that may seem, I did not indulge myself on resolving the question, and chose little shack by the library to be in.

Strange.

The house was built with bricks and smelt of nice hymn. Wish he kept a cat. Its garden somehow escape the crisis of mine. Its flower spoke of what a nice dream it had last night. Seems like my little shack is the only cursed one. Oh, my. I knocked on the door and walkled myself in.

ooo

The air was high and romance. Gentle souls flowed itself from room to room. Maze of staircases, they were many and generous. The cat was watching my movements through the hallways. My steps were light and slow. The carpet was warm and afloat, soft and comforting. The paintings on the walls spoke of forest and old rocks. Inviting myself in, I knocked on the door of the rooms, and walked myself in.

ooo

I climbed the stairs onto the starry rooms of the upper floor. The eyes of the cat was fierce and watchful. Some room had beds, some, the books, the others, more books. I become fascinated by the books the old man kept. Why some books away from the library? Were these more personal than the others? How so? I strolled through the titles of the books, drawing them along with my fingers. The books spoke of the owner it once had, at the same time wondered who came to take his place. That is weird, I've never thought of myself of owner of any.

The house claimed me, and I, the house.

ooo

That night, I slept in the house. The cat ignored me for most of the time. I slept soundly.

ooo

I'll just plant some corns...

I woke up and cleaned the house of the old dust it has held since the funeral. The cat was chewing on the milk like sweet cocoa. The freest packs without owners to enslave themselves, the cats. They have always fascinated the eternal enslaved, the humans. Some times, infatuation, other times, deep hatred and envy.

Lately, I've just been cleaning all day.

Looking out of the window, the white lighthouse was seen among the bluest sky. The titles of the books seem a bit alluring. I chanced upon some of them.

ooo

Of course, the books kept me from doing much else that day. Blame the  
books, not me.

The cat scoffed at me.


	5. e-f

e.

I went down to the village.

The Lilly left for the city. The pub smelt like salmon. Mr. Jambo behind the counter greeted me warmly. Would you like some gravy? Thank you, please. I sat and saw the clouds pass by.

A monk a table away was talkative. He talked the tales of a bear converted to Holiness, thus made into a statue in the capital. He spoke of the fast pace of change in the city, in which nothing stays a foot, just sit briefly, then hurries away a day later...

The clouds somehow seemed less interesting.

I ate, paid Mr. Jambo, and walked out.

ooo

The street is deserted in the scorching heat of the afternoon. The street was paved with little rocks, hot from attention from the sun. Step by step, I was walked into the cemetery behind the village.

ooo

The cemetery was talkative with whispers of the souls. The talked of the winds, the underworld, the rabbits and the fox. They spoke of the ants, the wolves and the humans. Ah, the humans. What a bother.

The white crosses over the graves shone through the sunrays.

ooo

The library was clean, and I left the books the way they were. No sorting into arbitrary rules, no bother. What a human. The books stayed where they were, as they are.

ooo

That night, I read some more books, and went to sleep.

 

f.

The house was cool and comfy. Little nest carved out of the world. Sanctuary for the little, monastery for the tired. The black oakwood-wall was soothing to my senses. The cat was washing its face. It is the morning, after all.

The air outside of cold and gentle. The trees dance left and right following the baton of the wind. The clouds were generous and lazy. The sun screamed life and light. It was the summer. Spring never came, but summer has arrived. Everything was alive, screaming its life. So beautiful, because winter exists.

Only death seems to be me walking on the trail to the library. I chanced upon the sky. Might see an airship or two, that would be grand.

ooo

Sam from the bread-maker was in the library.

Snoring.

The library was a nice haven from the toil of the daily works. Whether you read the book, browser through the books or just lie there, nice and warm under the sun. It was such a nice place, after all.

The book was covering his face to from the bright light of the sun. The title read, "Gratis De Gracia"

I have no idea what that means.

Bread and the Gracia. That sounds about right.

ooo

The work of librarian is very spartan. I've stayed in the library, reading. Sometimes, lying down and sleeping like Sam. Sam already left to tend the flour and eggs, told me would bring some bread next time to visit the lighthouse.

Bread and books, lying down under the warm sun. Such was life.

ooo

The black cat was dozing off by the window. Of course, she would never admit it. The queen don't just doze, she is in deep in thinking. Yes, ma'am. Of course, you are. The milk was fresh and sweet. She took it like she owned it. Of course, ma'am. You own everything under and above the sun. Such is the queen.

ooo

Pajamas were comfy and cool. The night was generous with its darkness. The moon shone calmly by the sea, brightening the sky like his sister did in the day.

I slept soundly, dreaming of bread and honey.


	6. g. Invitation Letter

g.

Rain woke me up.

Pouring.

What time is it?

I think I was having a dream.

I don't remember.

Something warm and comfy.

I feel I've forgotten something important, something... me.

-Meow.

Meow.

Cat.

ooo

The house at the night seems like another place, another time.

I walked throught the hallways.

The pictures on the wall seem to be smirking amusing glances towards me.

They know something I do not. Of course, what do I know?

I'm just a little boy, neither young man nor a child.

Stuck between man and child, I am confused and lost.

Sad thought rushed through my head and heart.

I'm neither like Lilly, who went to city to achieve her ambition, nor like Sam, who knows where he'll be when he dies and be fine with it.

What are you doing? Where are you going? I don't know. I just don't...

-Meow

Meow.

He's laughing at me, too. Great.

Laughingstock, indeed. I'm just that.

-Meow

Cat.

ooo

The black one was meowing in the old man's room.

What is he doing it, is he missing the old man?

You know, cat. He's gone. Like everybody else has and will be.

Humans are not immortal like you are. We're not like that.

We just live short, brutal lives and be gone like we never have been.

-Meow.

The letterbox has fallen from the desk. This must have woken the cat.

Cat.

I picked up the old letters and put them back to the box.

It's no good to rummage through the dead man's things, it just isn't.

But my eyes. They scan through word and letters, they don't know politeness.

The pair of them devour words like monsters, as reading is my only adventure.

In this small town, lone lighthouse, house of old man, pitiful creature as I am.

Books are my only escape.

-Invitation

The words jumped through my eyes.

ooo

Elegant and short words on the silky paper half-folded.

The words stared at me as it whispered,

-Invitation

It is vulgar of me to have pried it open.

Guilty, what are you doing!

I want to say it was not my will to have done it.

I'm just a little boy, I don't know what I'm doing, nor what I want.

I just do it.

-Meow

The paper pried itself open.

[Annual Bar Night.

Usual Place.

Follow the Cat.]

**Author's Note:**

> ***
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All characters and events in this fiction--even those based on real people--are entirely fictional.
> 
>  
> 
> ***
> 
> Hello, this is Jamie.
> 
> Comment and kudos, if you like.
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
